The Power We Hold
by Alcelena Nightfire
Summary: Response to EmySabath's Multiple Personality Disorder Challenge. Something broke that Halloween. How can Harry Potter cope with the magical world, and how can he kill Voldemort when parts of himself are scared of magic?
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and sundry belong to the illustrious, wonderful, fantabulous J K Rowling. No infringement is intended with this; I merely want to play.

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**The Power We Hold**

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People have always wondered how we did it. The first time, all those years ago, was enough to make us a legend; when the dark times returned, even though so many looked to us to save them once again, they never truly believed we could succeed until it was all finally over. Even now, a full year after the second war ended, we find ourselves the subject of constant awe, as though with enough worship our power and abilities might be shared among the masses.

In fact, there are those who actually believe that now that the threat is past, it is their right to be taught all the secrets of our ultimate success. As though this new era of peace entitles them to be our equal in all things. As though they had worked in any way to usher in the peace. Of course they couldn't be bothered to find a way to win the war _themselves_. _No_, far better to trust the entire matter to a child; after all, what kind of magical society would this be its citizens couldn't bury their heads in the sand and leave all the work to the Savior Child of Prophesy.

Sometimes, we wonder if we should have just left them to fend for themselves.

We must admit, watching the politicians or our former classmates try to negotiate the path we journeyed through those dark years would be a source of great amusement. We wonder if even a single one would still be alive at the end.

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**Prologue I: Little One**

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Colours. Soft blue; bright yellow; warm, cheerful red … these and more embrace the child in a sparkling array of New Discoveries.

A man's laugh. A rich, musical tenor harmonizes with the child's delighted giggles. This song speaks far more than words could, of love, and happiness, and Family.

A woman's voice softly singing a gentle melody, soothes the child into slumber. To the child, this voice will forever mean warmth, belonging, and strength.

The child wakes to the sound of loud crashes downstairs. In a house with James Potter and Sirius Black as frequent occupants, this in itself is not all that unusual, and the child sleepily wonders what new and exciting game his Daddy and Uncle Padfoot are making up.

"_Lily, take Harry and go! It's _Him!_"_ his father's voice, usually filled with laughter, has a new note to it; but the child, never having experienced fear, does not recognize the panic in the beloved sound. _"Go! Run! I'll hold him off –"_

Then his Mum is holding him, and even though she is moving quickly and the soothing sound of her heartbeat is much faster than normal, he knows that he is safe and cherished within her arms, his Mum's bright red hair caressing his face with fairy kisses. And then his Mum's voice, his favourite sound in the world, is echoing sweetly in his ears, and nothing can possibly be wrong when his Mum is speaking, so the child knows that the high, cold laughter in the background must be part of the new game, and nothing to worry about.

"Oh Harry, my Little One, you are much too precious to be exposed to this evil. I wish you were far away from this madness, that you will stay my Little One forever –"

The crash of a door opening is much closer now, and the child catches a glimpse of a tall, cloaked man as his Mum spins around quickly, just like she did earlier that day when they were chasing butterflies together, but little Harry is still too sleepy to laugh. When his Mum speaks again, as with his Daddy, he does not understand the panic writhing around the words.

_"Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I'll do anything –" _

_"Stand aside – stand aside, girl –"_

When a blinding green light comes from the tall man's wand and causes his Mum to fall down, the child remembers another time falling into a deep pile of golden leaves held safely in his Daddy's arms, and thinks that the light is a marvelous new addition to this game. This time, though, when the tall man laughs, his Mum's voice is not there to gentle the sound, and a trickle of unease starts to make it's way into the child's stomach. And when he feels that his Mum's hug is not so tight anymore, and no longer can feel that precious heartbeat beside his ribcage, a part of the toddler realizes that this is not a game at all, and looks up in fear into unfeeling red eyes.

And as green light fills the room for a second time, Harry Potter follows his Mum's last wish, and a part of himself separates in order to stay his Mum's Little One, always.

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**Prologue II: Azrael**

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Destruction.

Hate.

Death.

A seething morass of chaos swims through the small boy's mind and body, then bursts out of his forehead in a brilliant flash of lightning. The tall, cloaked stranger has time for a brief look of shock before the light blasts him out of the room to fall in a heap across the hall.

A horrid, tortured shriek fills the house at Godric's Hollow as the power emanating from the toddler causes the cloaked body to fall limp and still. The acid green connection fades as a misty form flees into the night, and Harry Potter falls unconscious.

The destructive power is not fully exorcised from the child, however. The part of the boy that recognized the danger and sent off Little One to be protected is frightened of the force that has torn through him like so much wet parchment. Yet as the chaotic force melds with a broken shard of the child and starts to take shape in the boy's mind, and moves toward's Little One's corner, the boy remembers his Mum's words echoing in his mind, and shakily starts humming a lullaby to keep Little One asleep while he tries to think of a way to deal with this new part of himself.

And Azrael, the Angel of Death, is stricken with confusion as a voice, both very young and overlaid with the memory of a beloved other, comes from the darkness and envelops him in blanketing layers that whisper of safety and warmth, and forces him to rest.

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**Prologue III: Freak**

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Darkness. Hunger. The toddler wakes to pounding on his cupboard door and a woman's shrill voice.

"Get up, you little freak. Your breakfast will be in your corner for the next fifteen minutes, and be glad I even bothered for such a useless thing as you."

As light from the hall floods harshly into his small space, the boy decides to be cautiously optimistic for today. After all, it's not every day that he's allowed to have breakfast. When he first arrived at The House, his small hands were not co-ordinated enough to feed himself properly, and the Man had declared that if all he was going to do with his food was make a mess, then he would not be fed at all.

"_It's not like you're worthy of our table scraps, Freak. You could never hope to amount to anything, unlike your cousin. Here, Dudders, let me get you another biscuit."_

The two-year-old quickly and silently makes his way to a corner of the kitchen and kneels next to a chipped plastic plate. There is no butter on the burnt piece of toast the Woman has sacrificed for his nourishment, and as he chews he wishes he could have something to drink to wash down the dry crumbs. A funny sort of pressure builds in his chest. To his shock, as his cousin tosses his sippy-cup to the floor for the third time that morning, it bounces and comes zooming right to him.

There is a shriek, and then a silence that feels full and angry and weighs on the child's shoulders. He looks up to see the Man, who has been smiling indulgently at the toddler being fussed over in his high chair, suddenly stand and stomp over to the smaller boy's corner.

"THERE WILL BE NONE OF THAT ABNORMALITY IN THIS HOUSE!" the Man booms. "I'LL TEACH YOU TO TRY TO TAKE WHAT BELONGS TO _MY SON,_ FREAK!"

Pain follows. It is a different sort from when Azrael tore him apart in a bright flash of green, but no less intense. Late that night, after whimpering quietly in his cupboard all day, the boy suddenly understands that no one will come to make it better; that he is not worth being cared for. The realization comes as a different sort of blow, yet there is a part of the child that rebels. He can see Little One quietly sleeping with an innocent smile, and knows something must be done to keep this despair from suffocating them all.

With a shudder, Freak breaks away. He looks within himself, and sees the others. Little One is still asleep, dreaming of a new friend. Azrael, body heavy with the ever-present lullaby keeping him calm, cracks a malevolent eye open and seems to breathe in the vestiges of the Man's earlier rage. _Avada Kedavra_-green irises glow as Azrael stirs with indignation.

Freak shakes with terror as this part of himself starts to shrug off the mantle of Little One's protection, the glint in Azrael's eyes too like the Man's earlier, the power emanating from the dark being too like the feeling in his chest that precipitated the terrible beating. As he continues to back away, however, Freak feels another presence; the undeveloped part of himself that rebelled from the knowledge of his worthlessness, that protected Little One from Azrael's first rampage. With sudden determination, Freak understands that this part of himself must be protected, just like Little One, from Azrael's destructive power.

With the fey bravery of one truly without hope, Freak conveys to Azrael that the dark one's vengeance is unnecessary. Thick, ponderous chains start to tether Azrael to his corner, formed of Freak's bone-deep conviction that he is not worthy on any indignation on his behalf, and that there is no justice to be served or revenge to be sought when this is what Freak deserves anyway. With a disgruntled snort, Azrael bows under the crushing weight of hopelessness in his new chains, and allows Little One's song to drag him back into slumber.

The unformed watcher nods solemnly to Freak from the shadows. Freak nods back, and comes out of his mind, determined that he will protect them from his relatives' harsh treatment as well. After all, it is no less than he deserves for being such a useless thing.

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**Prologue IV: Lily**

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The boy is five years old. He knows the woman is his Aunt, from the rambling speeches to which Freak is so often subjected, but has no illusions of belonging in the household. On a day not remarkable from any other, Freak notices a new, speculative gleam in Petunia's eye, and dispiritedly assumes a new form of punishment has been devised.

"Your mother, useless thing that she was, never had to work for a single thing in life, what with her freakish ways," she says the next day. "Well, Freak, don't expect that kind of treatment here." She hands the child a bucket. "Go outside and pull all the weeds in the garden, and you can start earning your place like the rest of us _normal_ people."

As the small boy tends the garden under the beady gaze of his Aunt, wincing occasionally at the occasional plant fibre grinding into his unprotected hands, a small seed starts growing in the child's mind. Later, as the five-year-old clumsily cuts vegetables for dinner and listens to Petunia's bitter soliloquy of her perfect sister never having had to lift a finger, Lily develops further, and wonders if she dares hope.

If, perhaps, the garden is groomed enough … if she does well enough in school … if the food is prepared perfectly and on time … if she is respectful, and polite … if the house is clean enough …

Maybe, just maybe, they might finally feel like they _belong._

When Uncle Vernon comes home and Freak comes out to bear the combined disdain from the two adults once more, Lily examines the others. She tucks the edges of Little One's blanket around his sleeping form just _so,_ then approaches Azrael's corner with no little trepidation. She knows it is rude not to introduce herself, but decides that the balance of propriety favours leaving him to rest. Even so, Lily is scandalized by the rough emotions emanating from the shadowy corner, and decides that further steps should be taken. She plants a tall, thick hedge around Azrael's slumbering form, speaking softly all the while how such hatred isn't proper and how they are better than such thoughts of vengeance.

The silent watcher, having been roused from slumber by the new split, examines the hedge that softly rustles with Lily's whispered words of tolerance and restraint, nods in satisfaction, and fades again into the background. It will be several years before he is needed once more.

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James and Lily Potter'sand Voldemort's final words from _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_


	2. The Letter

Author's note: this chapter isn't quite complete yet, but I just lost my job so won't be able to update regularly for a little while. Hopefully my interview tomorrow will go well so things can settle down. In the meantime, though, I've tidied up the formatting on the prologue and here's most of Chapter one. Thanks to those who reviewed!

"blah blah blah" - talking out loud

_'blah blah blah'_ - thinking/talking between alters inside Harry's head

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**Chapter One: The Letter**

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Ever since Aunt Petunia taught us to read and write, Lily has handled all the correspondence at Number Four, Privet Drive. Dutiful servant that she is, Lily walked quickly to the front door that fateful morning to gather the Dursleys' mail. All unsuspecting, she started sorting the items to their appropriate piles. A plain, official-looking envelope went to _New Bills_, a postcard was set aside for Uncle Vernon to read about Aunt Marge's holiday … but then Lily paused, confused. The thick, antique-looking envelope with its emerald green writing was unlike anything she had ever seen, and it was not addressed to her Aunt or Uncle, or even to her cousin Dudley.

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_Mr H. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

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'_Mr H. Potter,'_ Lily mused, '_is that our name, then? I wonder what the H stands for…'_

'_Couldn't be,'_ Freak whispered. '_We don't have a name, don't deserve one. Besides, who in the world would write to us? 'S prolly a hoax.'_

'_No return address or stamp… you may well be right about that,'_ she replied.

Lily decided to open up the mysterious letter. After all, if it _was_ a hoax, there was no need to bother Aunt Petunia for a measley bit of junk. If it were real, though, perhaps she would have someone of her own to correspond with. _'I wonder what it's like to have a pen-friend of our own.'_ Carefully, she disengaged the elaborate wax seal on the envelope and pulled out the letter within.

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_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY _

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf Warlock,_

_Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of the necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

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Shocked silence filled our head as Lily stared blankly at the enclosed list. It was several minutes before any of us could manage to respond.

'_See, told you it was a hoax,'_ Freak muttered uneasily. _'Look, most of this stuff isn't even real.'_

"Boy, what's taking so long?" Uncle Vernon boomed. Shaken from our stupor, Lily made her way to the kitchen, where she was mortified to see the Dursleys' breakfast dishes ready to be cleared from the table while we had been woolgathering.

"I am so sorry Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, Dudley," Lily said breathlessly. "I was surprised by some unusual junk mail. I promise it will never happen again." She quickly cleared the table and started washing the dishes.

"See that it doesn't, or I'll teach you a lesson about tardiness you'll not soon forget!" Uncle Vernon rose from his chair with a creak, and made his way out to the hall. At the kitchen door, he paused, turned, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What the blazes do you mean, _unusual _junk mail?"

Wiping her hands quickly on the dishtowel, Lily said, "I did not want to bother you with such nonsense, Sir, but I shall fetch it if you prefer." At Uncle Vernon's nod, she walked briskly to the living room and collected the envelope and its contents. She watched, strangely nervous, as he glanced over the page, his face going quickly from its usual ruddy complexion to a pale, nasty grey. Concerned, Lily motioned to the chair Uncle Vernon had recently vacated. "Uncle, you look ill. Please sit down, and may I fetch you anything? Tea? Some brandy, perhaps?" When Uncle Vernon nodded, much more shakily this time, Lily nearly ran to the liquor cabinet and quickly poured him a large brandy. "Here, Uncle, sit and drink this, you will feel better in no time. If I may say, Sir, you mustn't concern yourself with such a ridiculous hoax. Please allow me to dispose of this letter so you can put it out of mind."

Uncle Vernon's gaze suddenly sharpened. "Hoax, you say? Yes, yes, obviously nonsense…" his voice trailed off as his beady eyes seemed to search out every corner and cranny of the room. "Yes, nonsense… well, freak? What are you waiting for? Get rid of this rubbish and back to your chores!"

"Yes, Sir, right away!"

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Not having much time to write right now, I figured here's as good a spot to end the chapter as any. Once my life settles down a bit I'll add more to this chapter and write more. Please let me know what you think of it so far.

Letter address and contents from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_


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